Causation
by Silenced Cry
Summary: Every action has a consequence, and even the hardest of hearts break. Kisuke knows this, but even known theories must be tested… [Love square yoru-ura-ruki-ichi plus kaien; AU]
1. Witness

**Causation**

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach in any sense

A/N: This is my first Bleach fic, so reviews are appreciated I had written about 80% of this story last year, and figured I should post this before my desire to continue with fanfiction disappears completely. My creative energies are sporadic and divided on original works now, but I hope you enjoy this.

Format/Inspiration:_ This is a series of one-shots written from different perspectives, which collectively form a story_. I was curious about exploring the complicated emotions we all go through within and outside of relationships. We've all had at least some of these feelings before, and intention changes everything.

Summary: Every action has a consequence, and even the hardest of hearts break. Kisuke knows this, but even known theories must be tested…[Love square yoru-ura-ruki-ichi plus kaien; AU]

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_**Chapter 1. Witness**_

It had taken her some time to adjust to the living world, to its rhythms, to all of the false truths she has had to disavow as archaic and baseless; how ironic, that it was Soul Society that taught her not to trust.

It amazes her still, how so many things have changed, and yet the living world seems to remain so _normal_, so stubbornly consistent in its little inconsistencies of the everyday. The moon still comes up at night, the traffic lights flash tri-coloured, the evening news comes on at 6. And this night, as she sits, counting soundless seconds to match Ichigo's steadying breaths, Rukia marvels at how the Kurosaki house seems to sleep along with its tenants.

The silence of Ichigo's alarm clock flashing lime-green digits, the steady hum of the refrigerator, the snatches of muffled bed sheets shifting every so often –they all amount to that simple promise so specific to the living world: that peace has been won temporarily, and everything that lay unfinished yesterday will arise anew tomorrow. Chances are so important to the living, because they have so few. Until that fateful day when she sacrificed her powers for this red-headed teen, (a _boy_ really, pretending at manhood with eager bravado), Rukia never thought she would be able to _feel_ that again. Her chances had been taken, collected and revisited in her mind. But now… well.

Ichigo shifts slightly in his sleep, and slats of moonlight pool onto his chest and the side of his face.

Even after regaining her powers, she feels so _human_, so changeable, and all she can do is watch the consequences of her past actions unfold onto another. It is their bond, hers and Ichigo's. It is why they love and hate in the same breath and _deny_, _deny,_ _deny_ that it is simply their nature to do so.

As she feels more human, feels the turbulence of every risk they take, Ichigo gets stronger and more impervious to death. She quietly fears that he has gotten so close to it –to death –that he will become it; that a familiar rival becomes a friend, or worse, a dependence. One day, he may trade something essential to conquer more of it. And it is because of her.

Rukia slips out of the closet in one smooth motion and ignores the tingling hum of her zanpakuto, _Do you remember what it was like with Kaien?_

Kneeling by his bedside, she trembles slightly at the quiet vibration of his rietsu and at her sword's calm suspicion, _Does it feel the same?_

Rukia will not answer, for everything is laid bare in her heart and those wounds are not worth lifting up as a reminder. She takes a small compact mirror from her pocket and gently holds it to his face, careful not to let any reflected moonlight catch on its surface. And Rukia, always submitting her soul, her heart, to incomplete and fateful loves, sighs in relief at the fog of his breath, the simple proof that he is still alive (_whereas Kaien is not_).

She has not ruined him, but perhaps she has not helped him either.

_He needs more than you, child_.

The pain of this truth hurts twice, but Rukia has been ready for hundreds of years to finally succeed where she had failed.

'It will come at a cost, as all things do', Kisuke had said, months ago, when she had fearfully glimpsed that hellish look in Ichigo's eyes from a power he was not yet ready to have. And she had galled at the audacity of such words spoken aloud. She knew what she was asking for, and she did not want the shameful opportunity to opt out at such a forewarning. Now Rukia has less of a choice than she did before.

As she quietly tiptoes across the carpeted floor of his room, Rukia has the insight (or intuition) to glance at the bedroom window, and can make out the soft silhouette of a cat disappearing into the night.

[+][+][+]

'She is proud', the words escape like silk, yet still rude, almost imperial. 'But not selfish.'

Kisuke notes how that last part sounds very much like a concession, albeit a disdainful one, and wonders if Yoruichi's premonitions are this often tainted with opinion.

'They will come back to me, then.'

'They are coming _now_', she says, and Ichigo's and Rukia's outlines start to slowly fill in across a distant horizon.

Her whiskers twitch and there is a light in her golden cat's eyes that betrays cunning fascination. 'It is funny how she clings to him in that watchful way. And Ichigo, that foolish child, he so easily mistakes it for…' _she will not say the word_, but continues to muse, 'Let's hope that these feelings do not interfere.'

Kisuke allows himself a secretive smile that his partner does not see, 'You must have known love at least once.' They both politely ignore the irony of him asking this, and the detachment that accompanies his asking.

Somehow it feels worse now that he has named the feeling, the furtive glances; he makes them solid, tangible –susceptible to measurement and science. She stretches languidly, and distracts herself with the lazy alertedness particular to felines, her pupils reflexively following the movements of a dragonfly flitting nearby. It buys her time, but not an escape from the question.

'Yes', she says finally, 'once.' _But never_ _as simple and shy as theirs_.

Her tail twitches. If he can sense her envy, Kisuke does not betray this knowledge, but places it quietly into memory and in the assuredness of an ambiguous, shadowed grin.

His fingertips graze against the curve of her spine, feeling the soundless thrum of pleasure in the gradual arch of her back. He does it with the indifference of habit, and it is her instinct that responds. Still, Yoruichi does not quite purr, she makes sure not to –Kisuke must not collect too many small victories.

'It's the thrill of it', he says, gaze fixed on the pair, whose hands will sometimes brush in spite of their quarrels, acting as lovers do without even knowing it. There is a small smile cloying at Rukia's lips. Kisuke does not quite frown.

Their silences, his and Yuroichi's, knit together and then come undone.

'It won't last long', he says. He leaves and Yoruichi is left to watch the beginning of something meaningful unfold alone.


	2. Mutual Compensation

A/N: I hope you readers are enjoying this. Please note that each of this chapter's segments all flow together, but offer different character perspectives. Comments/suggestions for improvement are welcome.

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**Chapter 2. Mutual Compensation**

Kisuke's shop has a nervous calm to it, crinkling with almost-not-there energy, and Rukia's steps halt before she opens the door and the energy becomes something else. Ichigo doesn't wait; he crosses over the threshold, unceremoniously drops his bags on the floor, and spares no attention to the minutia of _mood_, premonition (those things that do not solidly affect him).

Rukia is forced to ponder the simplicity of his actions (and brave ignorance) and weigh it against the collected knowledge that preceded this moment: that meeting thresholds, crossing lines, finding limits, all have their significance. She thinks of the grudging and grateful concession to Kisuke's rules, the strings attached to his help, which have led her and Ichigo into his abode for temporary residence. She thinks of how Kisuke must have _felt_ their arrival as much as he must have _heard_ it, and wonders at that roguish smile and gentlemanly offering of his hand to help her in.

And when Kisuke shows them to their respective rooms, Rukia's heart hurts then steels when she knows from Ichigo's expression that he is not wondering why her room is beside Kisuke's and down the hall from his own.

With knees pressed uncomfortably on the wooden floor, Rukia slowly unpacks the delicate robes of the Kuchiki house and thinks (not for the first time) that it is _clumsy_ not to look for subtleties.

Afterall, it only takes a moment to figure out the truth about a person, or at least, that is how it feels when she is introduced to Yoruichi for the first time.

That innate feminine rivalry responds like quick fire in a single glance, and Rukia's fight is lost. Because even though she has had the time to conclude that the room Kisuke has offered up to her is in fact Yoruichi's, she feels very much like an intruder, if not a pawn to some subtle game. Yoruichi's shock at seeing her there says as much, in spite of the stilted pleasantries that cross the space between Yoruichi's tall figure and Rukia's kneeling one.

Rukia hates that she is found that way, that she is kneeling so often in her life as if the weight of her cheaply-won title pushes down on her peasant-warrior's shoulders. And she hates more minutely (but achingly), the thought that Yoruichi doesn't realize how beautiful she is, or maybe she does –this part is inconsequential. What matters, Rukia determines, is that Yoruichi does not realize the full extent of what it gets her, _who_ it gets her, effortlessly. Yoruichi doesn't have to work for anything, and it galls her before she remembers that each shinigami uses their talent differently.

[+][+][+]

Kisuke has learned this lesson a long time ago. When Yoruichi makes her way towards him, he cannot help but notice what this power of hers wins them both. And when she brushes past Ichigo in her invisible, simmering anger, Kisuke notices (with the astuteness of a scientist-observer) that the younger man is dismissive of her (or wanting to be) because it shows so clearly that this is the first time he is encountering a woman that makes him feel so much like a _man_.

…

Later, when he and Yoruichi are alone in his room, she will stretch against the length of his thigh and scratch her claws through to graze skin.

'I hardly knew you were this kind. To give up rooms that are not even _yours_.'

Kisuke does not ever mean to be cruel, though he is selfishly delighted at her anger and what it suggests.

'It seems I'm in the habit of taking in strays', he says, and to her ears it sounds like a pointed remark.

The absence of the soft weight of her feline body is marked when she soundlessly leaps off of the bed. He moves towards her when she jumps onto the windowsill, knowing that he is too slow to catch her, hold her, and submit to a few mean scratches before they share the night. Instead, she will hurt him in equal ways.

Before she leaves, Yoruichi reminds him of that delicate trust he has disrupted, and speaks words that never leave him: 'Be careful of what you say, Kisuke. Strays don't always come back home.'

[+][+][+]

The bowl of milk that he leaves out always greets him untouched at the end of each day. He is not worried of course, for Yoruichi makes frequent disappearances, but it is becoming difficult to explain away Ichigo's growing curiosity at this woman-creature and the powers she contains (powers that he wants to explore inside-out, if not capture). In fact, Ichigo has it fixed in his mind that his training is incomplete without her. And perhaps it is.

It takes Kisuke even less time to notice how Rukia's sullen-soft eyes occasionally glimmer with distinctly female foresight, that natural understanding of human relations that arrives at the correct reasons for Yoruichi's disappearance.

Kisuke values all of this; they are the unintended consequences of the plan he is formulating, and it is comforting to see that they are happening this soon.

And on the seventh day, he can appreciate the jealous satire of Yoruichi's small revenge when he finds her in Ichigo's room, curled up on the vacant bed. He will indulge her this much (he will indulge her in almost all things, but does not want to be reminded of it).

Kisuke joins her on the bed, lies down on his side, arcing around her small, cat's form. She unwinds herself from the warmth of her own body, and appraises him with that dull, wise look only cats have. The pads of her feet meet the bed sheets in soundless motion as she slinks around him, and the moonlight makes her dark coat gleam. When she jumps onto his chest with gentle propulsion, his memory travels away from cold science and towards the old wives tales of his childhood –cats that steal the spirit from you.

Yoruichi sprawls lengthwise on him and he is fascinated at the warmth and softness neatly contained in this gesture. His finger gently traces the triangular slope of her cat's ears, 'Forgive me my indiscretions, _Hime_.'

The soft pad of her tongue licks swift on his fingertip, but Kisuke almost smiles at the way her tooth grazes his skin first. She is always so full of intention.

'Do you remember what you said this same night, years ago?', she asks. The smooth arch of her back is starting to recede, the soft fur morphing into soft skin. Kisuke closes his eyes and when he opens them, the feathery curtain of her black-purple hair is dancing across his chest and neck as she presses her nose against his meaningfully. 'You promised to serve me', she says.

He kisses her palm, her wrist, her neck, with languid attention. 'And I have.' It is hard to say who is humbled by whom. She purrs this time, not as a cat, but as a woman.

'You may take as many victims as you want, Yoru. But at least grant your most faithful one a simple favour.'

Yoruichi smiles without meaning to, because Kisuke's brand of charm is doublespeak, and it so easily causes her to lose count of these very important fights and their victors. He kisses the skepticism away and presses the words into her hair, 'Trust me.'

She is loathe to do it, and her body, her soul, her heart have bridled against this specific request because the accumulated experience of life and death have taught her that trust is a power too dangerous to give up. But because this is Kisuke, because this time seems like it will be the last time, she promises it to him, but not before keeping a bit of her heart to herself.

She'll need to.


	3. Nothing Ventured

A/N: Sorry this chapter is a little short, but it marks an important transition point in the story. I will probably upload the next chapter sooner as compensation. Thanks for reading and feel free to review!

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_**Chapter 3. Nothing Ventured**_

Kisuke does not pace. He is above thoughtless action. But his mind is trying to find some surety in the situation, even as he quietly appreciates how soon her sweetness disappears when she remembers what this favour will cost her.

'He needs special training. Rukia cannot do it on her own.'

A strand of hair falls into her eyes, and it seems as if she is ignoring him. Indeed, she is tearing strips of white cloth for bandages with her neat, little, clawed nails, completely absorbed. He gently pulls her legs over his lap and urges her closer with his hand at the small of her back, 'Yoru.'

He kisses her ear, tries for her mouth. She pulls away. 'You're more than capable of training him. For _me_ to train him is _something else entirely_, and we both know it. I'm getting tired of your little projects, Kisuke.'

The fire of her refusal burns hot, and he vaguely worries that he has stretched the length of their emotions too far, to the point of fading. He knows distinctly that she feels seconded, improperly placed in his priorities, but only because she has been spoiled by other men. 'You know what to do', he says. His hand follows the firm curve of her calf, warms at the juncture of her knee, ventures higher.

'I wonder how many more favours I owe you', she says pointedly, meeting his eyes.

His hand halts, 'Don't be cruel.' She doesn't know any other way. And he is reminded that time and again, his rationality cows to her persuasion. And not just his…

'Bring him here', she relents, but not truly.

Something in her eyes tells him that she wants him to bite back his own words.

[+][+][+]

Kisuke watches them from his window, and sees Ichigo getting stronger day by day, but not against her wiles. Yoruichi does more than train him. It's like the sound of a plucked chord in the silence of a room –singular and resonant; when his eyes meet hers, they surrender.

She teaches him to channel the right amount of energies into a single step, and the propulsion of it jars him. He falls flat on his back and Yoruichi laughs. Ichigo meets challenge with challenge, there's no mistaking it in him. She leans in close so that the message in her gaze speaks a different taunt, 'Get up.' Her booted foot lies firmly on the flatness of his chest, and amateurish, he tries to push her off with his hands; but then he notices that Ichigo isn't the fool he seems, that he is growing greedy with lust, but not careless. He grabs hold of her calf, and his hand unconsciously admires, nearly lingers and stretches higher, before he throws her off with concentrated energy.

Kisuke has had time to understand it, to see the patterns of her charm work magic on another. He knows what it means to fight her, and it is effective every time. Yoruichi makes you want to conquer her. But a touch here and there, and she wins the whole of your heart.

Rukia notices too, with a constrained smile and shallow praise at Ichigo's improvement.

Kisuke watches her watching them, and arrives at his own conclusions. None of it is hard to detect, though it should be –they are warriors afterall, tacticians of the body and the mind; compromise and compensation for the least damage and the most good. He had thought she had already learned this lesson.

But there is an important difference between him and her. Kisuke can bear the weight of sacrifice –he is a utilitarian at heart. Rukia isn't. That is why she is troubled by the line-crossing, by Ichigo's hand over hers, still warm from the small of Yoruichi's back. That is why Kisuke is not surprised when she wants to get even in minute ways, when the hand not holding Ichigo's grazes smooth against his own.

Even though he is a utilitarian, he decides, it is not wrong to benefit in small ways for one's sacrifice.


	4. Noble (Part 1)

A/N: Thanks for the reviews (and for reading)! Things are starting to get complicated with the characters from this point onwards. Hope you enjoy. Feel free to let me know if you feel as if I've captured the emotions/characterizations accurately.

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_**Chapter 4. Noble (part 1)**_

More than once, she has intruded upon the vacuous atmosphere of nobility; her path had been inextricably tied to struggling over inadequacy, of raised eyebrows and dismissive looks. Her childhood had been a project of reform, but still, like all protégés who fall short, the falsity of title bestowed rather than inherited, shows at the seams. It was not until Kaien that a small part of her stopped caring, stopped self-consciously admiring and then mirroring through admiration. He showed her that the nobility took for granted their own legitimacy, that the two of them could rid themselves of its residue (she more easily than he).

And yet, more than once, she found herself –the vulnerability of her heart, the permeable film of her latent confidence –pressed close to him, the nearness of it staggering, with only the impasse of almost equal strength and their swords between them. In those moments, she could trace the lines of lineage in the shatterglass sharpness of his brow, the ridge of his nose, the masculine grace in movement that surpassed instinct.

'Is that all you've got?' His cockiness is almost galling; it has been _years_ since she has had to readjust.

The eyes and the hair are different, but not enough to matter. Sparring with Ichigo has made that abundantly clear. For that reason, she does not dare use anything other than kidou against him, even as her sword hums in retaliation for this irrational neglect.

Yoruichi notices. She has lived long enough to understand the intersections of narratives other than her own. She can align them all like constellations in her own astrology, make use of their mystery, and extract herself from those she should not be a part –in this way, at least, she is more holistic than Kisuke. This is why she knows that Rukia will exit before the full visual of a hidden memory is recreated, that she will falter when Ichigo arrogantly taunts with his refusal to dodge her head-on attack, feet rooted to the ground. Yoruichi can see it in Rukia's eyes –momentum is the unforeseen enemy again; she cannot stop herself if she should mistakenly turn traitor. Yoruichi can see it in his eyes, the brief flicker of something, of pride that is cowed –he had misjudged her speed.

For all of these reasons, Yoruichi intervenes.

Time is fractional as she flash steps, and displaces Rukia's power with a jolt of equal force. The younger girl falls into her arms with the suddenness of halted momentum, and only one of them can see Ichigo's smirk on the edge of a nearby cliff. Yoruichi does not remark at his improved speed which had fooled them all just milliseconds before, but possesses the eloquence to cover for a comrade's failing. She flash steps up to him, melting inbetween the breadth of a single second, and wipes the blood from his lip with her thumb. 'My turn', she purrs.

Ichigo's confusion evaporates as swiftly as he flash steps towards her in a familiar chase. 'Try to keep up', she says. He does.

Rukia catches herself coming undone with the weight of what could have been, and is quietly grateful to Yoruichi who knows –has known all along –and is dismally aware of her transparency. She finds herself tracing the liquid lines of Yoruichi's body in motion in relation to the gradually building superiority of Ichigo's. Arrogance meets arrogance, skin meets skin –nearly. Yoruichi is still too fast, too skilled. Rukia can only admire this noble in place of another, and desperately wants to earn her rank all over again.

…

When she passes him by on the staircase, Kisuke's hand lingers on her shoulder for longer than it should.

She does not meet his eyes, but knows what the touch entwined in sentiment means. She understands it as a woman.

'You don't need to prove yourself anymore, Kuchiki-san.'

_Neither of us is as perfect as they_, she thinks. Rukongai blood, the Soul Society outcast –they cannot compete. They can be unequal together. But Rukia is not won over that easily.

'You're wrong', she says.

Kisuke removes his hand before she brushes it off and recognizes with sadistic fascination that Rukia salts her own wounds.

He leaves her be.


End file.
